


Things We Lost in the Fire

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Coping Mechanisms, Gen, Loss, Thranduil's Scars, War, introspective piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3081794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do not talk to me of dragon fire; for I know its wrath and ruin.</p><p>Or, Thranduil doesn't like the memories the battle stirs up.  Minor spoilers for BotFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Lost in the Fire

When your mind was several thousand years old, sometimes it got to be too full. 

Now was one of those times, and it was rather inconvenient. Staring down at the unseeing eyes of the dead, seeing snow soaked red, it was a terrible time to lose himself to his own grief. Still, scars were painful, and they liked to rear their ugly heads with stinging and burning and aching that would not go away...nor would it leave memories as painful as the wounds themselves behind. The sword in his hand felt ungodly heavy; the crown on his head had never felt heavier. The light silver circlet was woven like the vines and branches he had woven his throne out of, and rested so that it restrained his golden strands of silky hair. As fit for a warrior king as it was, there was no denying that its weight was, at times, nigh on unbearable. "Recall your company," he decreed, his lips and tongue numb as the words left him. He did not know to whom he spoke: he could not tear his eyes from the slaughtered, nor could he silence the deafening screaming of the dying in his ears. It was horror beyond measure to see the chaos and destruction, to be mired in death, and to know that he was untouchable. Untouchable was right now a fate worse than death. 

He was untouchable, but it seemed that everyone else around him was. Painfully, fatally, mortally so. For the gift of that detached nature left him unharmed in battle, the only blood staining his skin the blood of his enemies. But it also left him cold and distant, and so terribly numb. Others went to extremes to feel again: risking their lives, stimulating their bodies, falling into vices to feel alive again. He had sworn he never would, and had kept his promise well. He was wishing he hadn't, though: he didn't even feel like he was alive anymore. To walk among these dead and feel nothing was agony worse than the wounds that had caused his scars, the scars that none save a single dwarf had ever seen. 

Thorin Oakenshield. Ah, that sparked something in his dead heart. Rage. Ire. It burned within him, a mighty flame: that this single dwarf could be the cause alone of such grief and sadness and tragedy and loss. It was easy to hate him; easy to blame him; easier still to wish his fate to follow that of the orcs he slayed. Deep down, he knew it would solve nothing. But still...it was so, so easy to hate him. Indirectly, Thorin Oakenshield had taken everything from him. His mount, his men, his privacy, his peace, his rhythm, his baseline. Everything. But he hadn't taken his wife, his treacherous mind fired back. He may have brought forth the memories, but you can't even try to blame him for what happened so long before his birth! 

A quick swing of his sword and a squelch of dying orc silenced his mind, but could not silence the rough pounding his heart, the rush of blood roaring in his ears, or the harsh scrape of breath against his throat. His boots were already soaked with blood, but with his last kill, his formerly-pristine robes and armor became spattered with gore. It lanced its way across his face, painting him with black streaks that curled across his skin in sickly waves. But for a moment, the heat it delivered him gave him a rush: alive. Barely, but he was alive. 

As he walked, more and more of his commanders flocked to him. Good men, loyal men, honest men returning to their king. He ordered all of them the same: recall everyone still alive. Pull back; retreat. He would waste no more life on this fruitless struggle. Encountering Gandalf, he dismissed the wizard with a similar remark: he had lost enough that day. The numbness was creeping back in, icy fingers and tendrils that threatened to encase his heart yet again in the agony of freezing to death. If pain was feeling and feeling was alive, then he wanted no more of it. To see hundreds, thousands of his kinsmen laid out on the snow, their bodies desecrated and mutilated, some of their faces still frozen in fear and anguish from the moment they passed on...it was torment beyond nearly all of his wildest nightmares. There was only one that plagued him more severely, and he thanked the stars that he had no lain eyes upon the great beast that destroyed Laketown himself. To see it with his eyes was to take a hammer to the ice around his heart: it would break it, shatter it into a million pieces. And he would be no more. 

Tauriel happened upon him at such a moment, when he was rife with turmoil and agony. With no patience for her naivety, even if at times her fire endeared her to him, he struck her weapon with deadly and frigid precision. "What you feel for that dwarf is not real!" he declared, voice thundering and hissing at the same time. It took Legolas's weapon sliding in against his own, effectively shouldering him aside, for the reason for his ire to become clear: there is no love in you. Worthless, she called him. His life was worthless, for there was no love in it. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. 

Gods, how he wished she was right! 

For love was pain, and if love was pain then he had plenty. Every waking moment was agony, every breath like inhaling needles, every beat of his heart another slice of the knife. His scars tore at his flesh with a screaming torture, carving him apart from the inside out, and he could only turn away in his excruciating pain. What did she know of love? Dying for it was nothing but the beginning. For once you died, there was eternity...and there was no respite. 

He had no idea how he came to be where he was now: sitting in a tent, the edges of his vision blurry, letting healers fuss over him and several of his advisers strip him of his armor and wrap warmer robes around him. Worthless. The cold around him wasn't kept at bay by the fire they built, nor by the clothing he numbly reached up to pull closer around his shoulders. Your life is worthless. Voices were muddied, just a blend of senseless noise around him. There is no love in you. The only thing he could see was her eyes, for the barest instant a reflection of her king's: torn apart in crushing, unspeakable agony. Your life is not worth living, for their is no love in it. 

"King Thranduil." 

Somehow, one person's voice managed to cut through the din. He was startled, yes, but centuries of containing his emotions had made such a task a matter of subconscious control by now. He merely raised his head, noting the slide of his immaculate hair over his throat as smooth and unhindered. Someone had cleaned the blood from his skin...he hadn't even felt hands on him. Raising his gaze to meet the brown eyes of the mortal man who stood before him, he pulled in a deep breath as discreetly as he could. No one seemed to know what was wrong yet; he would see to it that they wouldn't, even as Tauriel's mocking sneer cut through his brain, over and over and over again. Worthless. "Bard of Laketown," he greeted, nodding once in acknowledgement. He would not stand for this man; even among kings, there was a hierarchy. Instead, he waved off the handful of men and women still tending to him, impatiently batting aside a healer's touch and protests that he really ought to examine that cut and snapping at him that the strongest wine they could find would suffice for a healing drought. Taken aback, the elves scurried away on silent feet to do as requested, and his long fingers curled into the heavy, lined cloak that someone had been kind enough to drape across his back. "Sit," he invited; it was the warmest welcome Bard would get. "Why have you come?" 

"The battle is over," Bard informed him, noisily pulling out a chair and gracelessly collapsing into it. He couldn't even find it in his heart to look down on Bard for it; this was the mortal that slayed the dragon. Slight loss of composure in allowing his exhaustion to show was permissible after facing down such a beast, taking control of a town, and then leading an army. "Our losses are heavy...but we have driven the orcs back. Their leaders are dead and the few that remain are fleeing. We have won." 

"Won the battle...but not the war," he commented idly. Icy blue eyes slid from the bowman's face to the smooth, finished grain of the wooden table in front of him-when had that gotten there? Better yet, how had he gotten there?-and his gaze caught on a particularly large knot. "I am sure that we will see these foul creatures again." 

Even without looking directly at the human, he could tell that he was confused. "The orc forces are nearly routed," he protested. "I doubt they'll be back for a while with the losses they sustained-" 

"And if they do return, what of the losses we have sustained?" The remark was sharp, biting, and registered more confusion on the bowman's face. That wasn't fair, a part of his mind whispered. Quiet, another part snapped, and he could help but raise a hand to rub at his aching eyes. Pressure seemed to be the only thing that stopped the pain. 

"Aye, we have lost," Bard conceded. "But we are together now. We are much stronger like this. And we will have time to rebuild." 

If not for the timely arrival of one of his attendants from before with a decanter of wine and a glass he might have scoffed at the mortal's optimism and shot down any hope he had of receiving even more Elvish blood to pour onto the soil. Instead, he only released the barest of sighs and poured himself a healthy glass of the sweet red nectar, downing it in one go and pouring another. The wine went down easily, and he knew better than to be fooled by how smoothly it rushed down his dry throat. But it was the burn he craved, the wicked sear of flame all too familiar. Perhaps the same fire that burned him could soothe him as well. 

"It's not the orcs that are making you cross," the bowman pointed out. Leaning forward, he angled his chair to face the other occupant of the tent and not the table, and rested his elbows on his knees. "So what is it really?" 

This was...interesting now. At first, he didn't even move: completely statuesque as he lowered the now-empty goblet to the table. Unreadable. Made of stone. The walls were back up, and he was alert once more. Had he slipped that much that he was now such an open book? Even his own guards ought not be able to read him, and yet here he was, pounding alcohol like it could fill the hollowness in his chest and wondering how on earth a mere man could have looked past him so deeply. It was poor manners, he thought, choosing to sip at the second glass instead of pouring it all down the back of his throat as he had prior. Dorwinian wine could in fact get him drunk, but suddenly, the urge to drown himself in liquor to forget was dwindling. 

"I know the names of each of the men whose bodies I stepped over today," he finally declared, eyes once again distant and unseeing as they gazed at something only he could behold. 

"And you think I didn't?" Bard returned, his voice taking a dangerous edge. "King Thranduil, I have lived in Laketown all my life. Born there, raised there, and never left. I know each and every man, woman, and child who I ushered out of the battle today...alive or dead. I understand the pain of knowing you have led your people to their deaths." 

Once again, the shock lanced through him. This man was wise beyond his years-beyond perhaps even some of those in his army. Who on earth could he be that he understood the responsibility of commanding an army such as they had done today? "You sound as though this has affected you before," he said finally, hoping that a subtle probe for more information would elicit a response and direct the attention off of him. The less he had to speak of or even think of himself right now, the better. He had endured nothing today of which he cared to speak. 

Bard only smiled mirthlessly and briefly spread his hands before they clapped back together. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've been a simple bargeman all my life...just scraping together enough to keep my children fed and a roof over our heads. I've never really been responsible for anyone other than them, but I'm the sort who would step in front of an arrow for those they considered friends." 

A noble sentiment; one that most outgrew by the time they reached one hundred and therefore were fully-grown adults, in his experience. Finishing off his second glass far quicker than he should have, he poured himself a third and told himself it ought to be the final. Finally allowing his weight to rest against the back of his chair, his head briefly fell back to take the strain off of his neck. It lasted all of a few seconds, for the crown on his head pressed against the high back and dug into his skull and only sent another jagged bolt of pain through his skull. Purple splotches danced in front of his eyes, and the urge to throw the wretched symbol of his rule across the tent was a barely restrained one as he leaned forward again, shifting uncomfortably and hoping that this, too, managed to pass the bowman unnoticed as he pressed, "You are a father?" 

"Aye," Bard replied, but he did eye the Elvenking suspiciously as the taller man fought for comfort. "My oldest, Sigrid, a lovely girl who feels like she must replace her mother. My middle, Bain, who wants to grow up as quickly as Sigrid did because he thinks growing up means adventure. And my youngest, Tilda, who wants to stay young and innocent forever." 

No wife mentioned, but a genuine smile that lightened even his exhausted features as Bard spoke of his offspring. How long had it been, he pondered, since Legolas could be called young and innocent? He'd been an adult for half as long as he himself had been...thousands of years. "And yourself?" Bard asked. "Are you a father?" 

"...I am," he said slowly, hiding the downward curl of his lips in his glass. Something told him, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that this man could see it anyway. "My son, Legolas...he wants adventure. He wants to explore. Though he is a man now he never lost his thirst for exploring the woods and pushing the boundaries and travelling beyond our lands. He has yet to experience the pain and suffering beyond our borders, and despite my most fervent attempts I cannot seem to shield him from it. His desires are too strong to be contained. And I...who am I to deny a grown man, a warrior, the right to do as he pleases?" 

His words were greeted with a soft, understanding smile. "Spoken like a true king," Bard commented. "And also as a true father. Aye, it is difficult to let them walk to the store by themselves and trust that they make it there, get what's needed for dinner without dropping any coins, and make it back...but they need to grow up sometime." 

The story was...oddly touching. Yes, this man was indeed a father, and the look on his face said it all. World-weary, and yet still hopeful. He was torn between a wretched desire to crush that hope underfoot and a longing to once again be so naive that he could do something as immature as hope. Unable to decide, he took a slow sip of wine, recognizing the warmth that was beginning to pool in his stomach. He had a while to go before he started to truly feel the effects of the wine...the stars knew an ordinary man would be falling down drunk by now. But this was nothing now. 

Apparently, Bard was either unnerved or emboldened by his silence, as he pushed for yet more: "What of Legolas's mother? Surely she is a lovely woman, to have raised such a fine son." 

The smile that crossed his face was mirthless and twisted and cruel, a mockery of what should have been a pleasant expression. He could feel how convoluted it was, a painful grimace more than a pleased grin, but it still didn't stop him from fairly spitting the words: "Lost. As I have lost countless today. Lost to the greed of dwarves."

Somehow, this didn't seem to faze the bowman as his prior statements had. What a confusing, enigmatic, and utterly vexing mortal! His face still smooth, no trace of the incredulity he could feel rising like bile in his throat, but it was present and growing. "I'm sorry." 

"So am I," the Elvenking snickered, thoughtlessly. Immediately, he wished he could amend the statement, or perhaps take it back altogether. But what was done was done, and bitterness would solve nothing. 

"It never goes away, does it?" 

Finally, Bard managed to draw his gaze again. Blank, empty, but not discouraging; so the bargeman continued. "I, um...I lost my wife as well...she took ill one winter shortly after Tilda was born...she wasn't strong enough to fight it off." 

The grief manifesting in Bard's eyes was one all too familiar, and one he knew too well right now. To feel everything so acutely was a whole new world of emotions, where everything was dramatic and nothing was a small matter to be discounted. The entire world kept moving around you, when you were sure it ought to be falling apart. It was the one and only time his tears had ever graced the earth with their diamond-like presence. 

"King Thranduil," Bard began again, seeing the elder Elf begin to lose himself in his spiraling thoughts again. "We have all lost today, make no mistake...but it was worth it in the end-" 

"Worth it?!" 

He could bear the offense no more. Slamming his glass down on the table with remarkable force, amazed that it only sloshed a bit of liquid onto the table and didn't shatter, the elvenking bolted to his feet and stared down at the human archer with disgust and disdain permeating every contour of his ageless face. "Worth it?!!" he repeated, the words stronger and angrier than before. Once again, he could taste the emotion on his tongue, and it tasted bitter and sour and acrid like the smoke he breathed trying to save her. "I came here to reclaim the last of her!" he snapped, his voice laden heavy with ire but volume still contained. He had long ago learned that raising one's voice was the mark of a coward, because only cowards resulted to force to make others listen to their words. True leaders who had earned the respect of their people whispered so that others had to lean in to hear them, proving that they would bend to their king's words. "And that greedy scum would refuse me the necklace my wife wore when she died! The dragon took it from her charred corpse, stole it, and hid it away in its horde beneath the mountain. The mithril gems are mine, and he would covet them as his grandfather did, stealing from me the last I have of my beloved! A curse upon he who stole those gems, and upon each of his wretched kin!" 

It would seem that the bowman had no response to this outburst, and with that realization, a deep, dark shame settled over the king. He had allowed his anger and despair to get the best of him. It was a slip that he had been avoiding for centuries, and now to lose control twice in the same year? Unacceptable. The cause was a dwarf and a mortal, too! These creatures that got under his skin were proving to be a righteous pain to rival the splitting sensation in his skull. This was the reason he walled himself off, he mentally chastised, both emotionally and physically. Such lapses were completely uncalled for and entirely unacceptable. It should not happen. He was a king, a ruler, and well-respected. He was in a position of power that he had fought hard for sacrificed much for. Now was not the time to ruin it. 

"Such pain only grows over time," Bard murmured, even as he turned his back on him and struggled to compose himself again. His hands, hastily wiped clean, still had blood dried around his fingernails; they clasped behind his back as his shoulders opened, his back straightened, and his head rose. Squaring his shoulders, he sought to regain control of himself through the adoption of a more powerful pose. It didn't help him as much as he would have liked it to, but it shielded him from the brunt of the bargeman's words. This way, he could take the punishing blows across his back and not across his face. 

"I can't imagine...living with such grief as long as you have. At least when you're mortal, you have enough keeping you busy in the short amount of time you have that by the time you're slowing down, you have the hope of seeing them again soon. But you...thousands of years upon this earth, and all spent in the shadow of a loss so tragic that it never leaves you. I mean...no hope, no end in sight...no love, really." 

It destroyed him all over again. Within seconds the glamour was gone and his scarring was present, everything from the horrific burns to the blinded eye. Deep chunks had been carved out of the elf's flesh, marring his beauty forever. He was no longer a creature of grace and majesty but a creature as filthy and deplorable as the ones against which they fought not an hour ago. He was worthless-because he had not even his vanity left to live for. "Do you see now why I have not moved on?" he snarled, slamming his hands down on the table and leaning over to loom over Bard. Long limbs uncoiled, serpentine in movement even now as he lost himself to his maddening grief, so long ignored in the hopes of it vanishing. That was what he preferred to do, in fact: wait things out. He was patient. He had forever. He could afford to wait. But this...this never left him. Not ever. "I have known loss!" he continued, but the words came out not so much strong and accusing but rather crumbling and pleading and beseeching. Do not ask me more, his tone begged where his voice and posture would not. Dredge up no more of this unfathomable suffering-do not bring ever more upon my shoulders, for surely, I will crumble under the weight of more burden to bear. 

He had expected rage. He had expected disgust. He had expected anger. He had expected defensiveness, and judgment, and rejection. What he had not expected, as he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and moved to straighten, was the most tentative of touches against the horrifically-disfigured flesh. In a sudden rush of panic, the illusion was back in place, hiding the scars once more. But he had frozen again. Once more, his limbs were lead and unresponsive to his mind's commands. He could coax no movement from his body, save for the involuntary flinch that rippled across his grievously wounded cheek. For a moment that stretched on into eternity, neither man moved, one completely enraptured by the skin beneath the rough, calloused pads of his fingers, the other seemingly terrified to move away, lest the spell of silent reverie be broken. The sounds around the tent, the clanging of armor and the stomp of footsteps and the muffled rumble of speech, all seemed to have been dampened and blotted out by that rushing in his ears that always seemed to accompany moments like this. He never could keep complete control over himself when these scars were called into question- 

"How long?" 

Bard was the one who broke the silence. Tearing himself away, the Elvenking hastily backed off one, two, three steps back from the table, fighting the lingering cold that seemed hellbent on seeping into his bones. Abandoned on the ornate chair were the robes that had been draped over his shoulders, his peoples' attempts to ward off the winter chill. He wouldn't reach for them yet, though: not yet. Not when his gaze was still so guarded and wary. 

At the lack of response, Bard finally seemed to give up. His mouth was stretched into a single straight, thin line; his eyes averted and his expression fell in something like resignation. Briefly, his hands rose to settle, palms up, out to the sides in what he interpreted as helpless surrender. Good; let him leave. Let him walk away shaking his head in revulsion as they all did. Let him sow rumors among his people of the king's monstrous appearance, how he was now fit to breed an orc- 

When the bowman stood, it was not to walk away as he expected. The man continued to surprise him, rising, gathering the thickest of the cloaks from the chair, and shamelessly walking over to once again wrap it around his shoulders. It would seem that once more the King of Mirkwood was stunned into silence and complacency. To this, Bard only offered a sad smile and an anti-climactic remark: "You'll catch your death of cold in this. Stay warm; rest; recover. You'll need your strength. Tomorrow, we bury our dead." 

Watching him go, it was all he could do to raise his hands to tangle his long fingers in the soft fabric. It rested heavily around him, but somehow, the resplendent robes seemed less of a burden now. The crown on his head, certainly, seemed to have lost a bit of its crushing weight as well. For the first time in centuries, Thranduil was able to pull the massive cloak tighter around him, bow his head, and not feel like he was drowning. 

"My Lord?" 

The elf that had entered as Bard left was standing in front of him expectantly, as if there was still something that needed to be done that he could somehow authorize. In his mind, there was nothing to do but collapse in bed, curl up under his blankets, and pray for sleep. It wouldn't come-his dreams would always haunt him-but that wasn't to say he should plague his people with the same fate of a sleepless, restless night. "I am retiring for the evening," he declared, picking up the second of the robes from the chair and pulling it around himself. If he wanted to, he could believe he saw relief in his guardsman's eyes as he did so. "You may all do the same. Tomorrow we will mourn our fallen and pay them respects. But for now, the sun has left us and we are all in danger of collapsing. Arrange the watch so that everyone may sleep, and rest for the evening. At dawn, we begin again." 

"Yes, my Lord." 

The moment he was left alone again, confirmed by the murmured words outside that the king was not to be disturbed, he did exactly as he had planned: crossed behind the divider to where a bed had been made for him, disrobed as much as he could summon the courage to in the bitter cold, placed his clothing aside on a chair, slipped beneath the blankets, and resigned himself to tossing and turning like a fish out of water until exhaustion claimed his spinning mind. He didn't want to think about everything he had left to do, about all the loss and pain that would haunt him for the rest of his life, about all the Elvish blood tainting the soil...but the thoughts came anyway. He knew they would; he was well-accustomed to the long-standing torment that his own mind wreaked upon him. 

Tonight, though, he did have one thought pop into his mind that did not pain him so much. It was the odd sensation that had gripped him when, for the first time in centuries, someone had dared lay their hands upon him. He couldn't recall a time since his wife was alive when anyone had dared lay their hands upon him-no one had even touched him in battle. And yet today, a humble mortal bowman from the piteous little town on the lake had looked at him with no fear and placed his hands on him. And not just a brush of their fingers, but he had set his hand on the horrific wounds on his face as if he could simply brush them aside, disregard them as nothing. It almost looked to him like they were nothing. Now, he was not naive enough to hope or let his mind wander-for long life bred acceptance, tolerance, priorities, and understanding-but it was interesting to think of who it was that had broken through to him. Bard the Bowman, now master of Laketown...a seemingly-ordinary man who had, in a month, sheltered and aided dwarves, indirectly and inadvertently organized a revolution, led said revolution into new leadership and new life, slain a dragon, marched into war beside elves, fought on their behalf for a share of treasure promised and rescinded, and risen to lordship after a battle that nearly claimed the lives of every man who he led, as well as his own and that of his children. Perhaps, then, it was not so unlikely that he was the one to puncture the icy heart of the Elvenking. 

For the first time that he could recall of recent years, he didn't feel so numb as he plunged into a deep, restless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been doing this a while, but decided to come back. Thranduil speaks to me as a character, and I enjoyed this glimpse into him as a person. Constructive criticism is always welcome, but please be polite and respectful. Please leave comments and kudos; you might see more of me.
> 
> ~Deus


End file.
